


By Any Other Name

by Minimaliminal



Category: Parks and Recreation, Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: But only because they're possessed by ancient lesbians., Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi, Reincarnation, Some platonic leslie/ron???, Soulmates, body swapping, both of the xena and parks and rec variety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:28:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7967836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minimaliminal/pseuds/Minimaliminal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> In a time of rampant bureaucracy, politics and paperwork, a land entrenched in complete and utter incompetence cried out for a hero. He was Ron Swanson, a mighty carpenter forged in the heart of Indiana. The mahogany, the oak, the birch. His carpentry skill will change the wood. </em>
</p><p>Xena awakens from Ron Swanson's past life to combat a great evil brewing in Pawnee.</p><p>And do some hunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. Somehow, after realizing the Diane Lewis is played by the Flawless Lawless, I came to the conclusion that Ron Swanson has to be Xena reincarnated.
> 
> The idea just would not stop bugging me. So I'm writing crossover fic.
> 
> It started as just a little one-shot of Xena and Ron bonding over fishing, but I just... couldn't stop there.

 

Ron Swanson left the office wanting nothing to do with any other human being on the planet. He spent all day putting up with not only Leslie Knope’s insufferably chipper and bright attitude, but Chris Traeger’s as well. Sometimes it felt as if that man was built for the sole purpose of irritating him. All his encouraging words and inspirational quotes were really beginning to encourage him to punch the man in his stupidly attractive face.

So, having made it through the day without doing exactly that, he decided he’d reward himself with a little impromptu fishing trip. He knew this wonderful little spot by the cabin with crystal clear waters, tall, thick trees and fish that jump straight into your arms like a long lost love. It would be perfect for today.

He tapped a quick text in the car before disappearing from the modern world.

‘Hard day. Going fishing. Will you and the girls be ok?’ Ron nodded with satisfaction as he hit the send button. As far as he knew, Diane didn’t have anything planned so he wouldn’t be missed for a few hours. But it didn’t hurt to check.

The answer came quick. ‘We’ll be fine. Be back by 7. Whatever you catch will be dinner.’

Ron smiled under his mustache as he drove off.

The lake by his cabin was just as he remembered it. It was if this place was completely separate from the modern world. A world of its own. Quiet and peaceful and secluded.

He flung his line far out into the water and before the ripples could reach the shore, something came thrashing out of the water.

But it wasn’t a fish.  
  
Or rather, it wasn’t just a fish.

A woman burst from the water, muscular arms wrestling a fish to the surface before flinging it to the shore.

“What in the name of-“ Ron started, appalled to find someone intruding on his land. Then he got a closer look at the lady, catching a glance of clear blue eyes that wiped all of his previous thoughts from his mind. “Diane?”

“Nope. I’m not Diana. I’m just trying to catch something to eat. Same as you.” The woman sighed, wading out of the water to retrieve her fish which was still flopping around on the rocky ground.

Ron wasn’t sure what to think. Surely, this couldn’t be Diane. She wouldn’t leave the kids on their own just to surprise him and she wasn’t the type to dye her hair black, wear armor or come bursting from a lake with her fist shoved half way down a fish.

But how could it not be? Who else had those eyes, that voice? Who else would know about this place?

“Nice rod” She smirked up at him sharply as she killed the fish and moved it to a patch of grass. Ron flinched as a distinct feeling of familiarity struck him. Who else smiled like that while making a fishing related innuendo? “Where’d you get it? I broke mine a season back. I don’t mind taking a dive for my dinner, but I much prefer staying dry whenever possible.”

Alright, so it definitely wasn’t Diane. Just some strange drifter woman who looked like Diane and made a habit of catching fish with her bare hands while dressed in leather. “I made it.”

The woman nodded in silent approval before stepping back into the water.

“Hey, if you pull that stunt again you’ll scare off the fish!” Ron warned her. He wasn’t about to chase off some drifter who just wanted to catch her own meal. Hell, he encouraged it. The more people who learned to live independently off the land the better. But he couldn’t just let her ruin his chances of catching something.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.” She assured him as she walked into the lake, wading in until she was waist deep. For about a half an hour, Ron was left in peace. Just him, the lake and the fish. Occasionally, the woman would turn her head or her arm would twitch but it didn’t disturb the peace of the moment. The wind picked up a little, ruffling his moustache in the most delightful way. A blue jay swooped down from a far tree, its brilliant blue wings flashing like jewels against the dark forests.

If Chris Traeger were here, he’d probably spout some new agey bullshit about becoming One with Mother Nature. But he wasn’t. He was out jogging or doing yoga or maybe both simultaneously. So Ron Swanson was most definitely not becoming One with Mother Nature.

Ron Swanson was Fishing.

And the fishing was good.

He caught two decent sized mackerel before the woman made her presence known again, holding a thrashing trout above her head with a big grin on her face. She hurled it towards the shore. “Watch your head!”

Ron ducked out of the way, barely quick enough to avoid getting a slimy dorsal fin to the nose. The woman barked a laugh before turning her focus back to the water. After the lake settled and all traces it was ever disturbed disappeared, aside from the large trout dying on his foot, he allowed himself a brief hearty chuckle.

It wasn’t long before the woman who wasn’t Diane did it again, this time with an eel about a yard long wrapped around her forearm. She wrestled it onto shore, grinning like a maniac the whole time.

“That’s a lot of fish for one person.” Ron commented once she got the eel under control. One strange drifter woman living on his land was one thing, but he wasn’t sure if he was willing to host an entire colony of drifters.

“I’d hope so, considering I’m catching for three.” She sighed, pulling the wet hair back from her face. Three wasn’t too bad. He’d leave them be. For now. “What about you? Feeding an army?”

“My wife and daughters.” He replied, just as something began to pull on his line.

“Ah. A family man.” The woman sighed as she pulled a knife out from… somewhere. She went on as she worked on gutting her catch, her voice casual, low and really, frustratingly familiar. “Must be nice, the quiet life.”

Ron frowned, remembering Leslie’s over-caffeinated rants, Andy’s incessant… Andiness and the girls. Ivy and Lily were lovely girls of course, but dear lord did they have a set of lungs. “I wouldn’t say quiet.”

She scoffed. “Bound to be quieter than mine.”

 Ron wondered how that could be possible if she lived in the woods, but he decided it was wrong to assume he knew anything about her life. It was then that Ron felt a tug on his line. Any questions he had intended to ask were forgotten as he hauled a gorgeous rainbow trout out of the water.

“Oh, that’ll feed your family. And perhaps three others.” The woman commented, looking up from her fists full of fish guts.

“Indeed it will.” He killed the beast and hauled it into the cooler he had brought with him. Not yet ready to face the ‘real’ world again, he took a seat on the cooler and breathed in the clean, country air. For a good half hour he simply allowed all of his problems to drift away, leaving only a sense of accomplishment and the vague, but unmistakable smell of fish innards. Ron turned to his unintentional fishing partner, who was digging a hole in which she planned to dispose of her handful of guts. “What is your name?”

She seemed to look vaguely surprised at the question. But it passed quickly. She smiled, her eyes glowing softly. “Xena.”

Again, Ron was struck by a sensation of familiarity. It was so strong, he found himself unable to breathe for a moment.

“Yours?”

Ron coughed, dislodging the feeling from his windpipe. “Ron Swanson.”

Xena scoffed, as if there was something amusing about the name ‘Ron’. “Well, Swan’s son. I’d shake your hand, but…” She raised her bloody hands.

Ron nodded in agreement. “Understood.”

Xena smirked, dumping her pile of innards. They both enjoyed the peace of the open air in silence, simply looking out over the still waters of the lake. As they sat a few feet apart, saying nothing, doing nothing, Ron decided that the Xena woman, though strange, was excellent fishing partner.

Although he felt he was only just beginning to enjoy himself, he felt it was time to get back to his family. He turned to his acquaintance with an approving nod. “Feel free to fish here whenever you like, Xena.”

Xena considered him with a vaguely confused look. She smirked and returned his nod. “Same to you, Ron.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ron was sleep-fighting again. But this time was different. Usually, his body went through the actions of fighting but he didn’t dream it. It wasn’t often that he dreamt at all. But tonight he didn’t only dream, He dreamt vividly.

He was on a battlefield, the smell of blood, sweat and mud thick in the air. There were people after his head all around him. Arrows and swords and spears flying at him from all directions. But it was fine. It was more than fine. It was good.

His heart was pounding and focus was keen. He swatted arrows and spears out of the air like flies and snapped the necks of braver attackers as easily as chickens for the slaughter. He Was Alive. Foreign war cries erupted from his throat and a wild grin spread across his face as arterial spray burst like fireworks wherever he looked. When he was finished, there was nothing but bodies for miles around. It was a masterpiece.

Ron woke up, for a moment not recognizing his surroundings. He got up, almost falling over as though he’d suddenly forgotten how much he weighed. He walked to the bathroom, brushing off the vague feeling of shock when he looked in the mirror and realized he had a mustache.

Ron brushed his teeth.

Slowly, his dream left him. Slowly, he got used to being himself again.

-

“Are you feeling alright?” Leslie asked, actively dimming her blindingly bright attitude for his benefit. “You’ve been kinda quiet- well, you’re not exactly a talkative person, but you haven’t laughed at Jerry at all today. So, naturally I was concerned.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just not feeling entirely… myself.” Ron replied honestly. There was never any point lying to Leslie. She never backed off. She never had the sense for it. He once bit his tongue while eating a burger and spent the next month trying to get Leslie to stop badgering him about what was wrong.

“Oh, sorry to hear that. Well, try to push through it, alright? We’ve got to find a way to get teenagers to stop playing ‘swing the raccoon’ by noon tomorrow or there’ll be a rabies outbreak that’ll make the bubonic plague look like allergies.” Leslie babbled on, the high-pitched warble of her voice making Ron seriously consider taking up homicide as a hobby.

“Honestly, how could raccoons pose this much of a threat?” Ben Wyatt asked himself, looking for all the world like a small, perplexed owl. “Isn’t there animal control in this town?”

Everyone but Ron gave Ben a blank stare. Ron was too distracted by his clothes. They seemed awfully constricting and stifling while also leaving him unbearably vulnerable all at once. It was a little like being dressed in tinfoil. What was even stranger was the knowledge that this was his favorite outfit just yesterday. He liked this shirt in particular because it was plain, showed very little skin or personality and added to his aloof, no-nonsense persona.  But even though he could still remember all the joy it used to give him, he just didn’t feel it anymore. He just felt trapped, sweaty and kind of… ugly.

He fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves as the others squabbled about damn vermin, rolling them up to his elbows to free his wrists. He sighed as he heard someone suggest offering the kids money to stay away from raccoons. “Why don’t I just kill them all.”

“We thought of that already. It’d take too much effort and money to get capture them and get them euthanized and we’d get burned at the stake for animal cruelty if we do it any other way.”

“Not we. Me. I’ll go out, snap as many raccoon necks as I can within the next twenty four hours and no one has to know.” He sighed, already getting up from the table. He was getting unbelievably bored of just sitting around.

“No. No, that just wouldn’t work.” Leslie protested as Ron gathered a few supplies. A laser pointer. A map with all of the raccoon hotspots circled in red. Jerry’s stash of chocolate bars. “I have full confidence in your hunting abilities, but these raccoons aren’t your ordinary stag or bear. They’re much more dangerous! Besides, someone’s bound to hear a gunshot.”

“That’s why I won’t use a gun.” Ron pointed out as he headed for the door.

Leslie gave up, shouting a final “But you’ll get rabies!”

“Don’t worry Leslie,” Ron said, peering from behind the doorframe. “I’ve been vaccinated.”

As he left the building, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. He paused for a full five second to take into the sights, because he hardly recognized himself. The dangerously sexy smirk, three un-done shirt buttons and bare, muscular forearms had turned him into some kind of… handsome rogue. He kind of liked it.

Although, he would have to get some kind of arm-guards to deal with the raccoons.

Preferably leather.


	3. Chapter 3

The dreams have been getting worse. Thankfully, not all of them were about fighting. Many involved a lot of wandering through forests and fields on a horse and sitting by blazing campfires. Or doing menial labor in small, war-torn villages for a little food and lot of teary words of gratitude.

Between the violent warzones and the calm country work, every dream seemed to come from different lives entirely. But there were a few constants that connected them all.

The first and most obvious one was that he seemed to remain the same person. And that person was definitely not himself. It was a woman, strangely enough. As vivid as the dreams were when he was in them, the details always slipped away from him as he woke up, so he couldn’t remember exactly who the woman was. But he knew she was definitely a woman and she really liked fighting.

The second was the irritating blonde who seemed to be with him (or her, as he was a she in these dreams) in nearly all of them. She really liked talking. Loved it, actually. When they weren’t fighting or eating, she was talking. If Leslie Knope had existed in Ron’s dreamworld, the irritating blonde would’ve reminded him of her.

There was also a horse. Both Ron and the woman Ron was in his dreams liked the horse. It was a good horse.

It seemed every time he woke up, it took longer and longer to come back to the real world. Yesterday, he had to get through most of breakfast with no memory of Diane, Ivy or Lily and very little knowledge of how to use a fork. This morning, he spent a good 5 minutes sitting in his car trying to remember how to drive. Needless to say, the usual morning piss had become a daily heart attack.

Considering the fact that the woman in his dreams tends to respond to anything that confuses her with explosive violence, he was beginning to get seriously worried. So he set up something of a system for himself. He carved up a few wood plaques, engraved them with a few key reminders and placed them strategically around his house.

There was “Don’t Kill Anyone.” On the back off the bedroom door, “Diane. Lily. Ivy.” Sitting on the toilet tank with rudimentary illustrations of who is who underneath, and “You are a man Named Ron Swanson.” nailed to the wall by his bed. They got some strange looks from Diane. But he easily explained it away by saying he was practicing his lettering technique. Three signs wasn’t nearly enough to guide himself through his entire life, but it was enough to keep him from being a danger to anyone.

That is, if his new alternate personality could read.


	4. Chapter 4

“Ron Swanson! Good to see you.” Chris Traeger beamed like the latter half of a commercial for antidepressants as Ron entered his office. “Please, take a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

He took a seat in a frustratingly ergonomic chair and took a deep breath of the probably vitamin infused air, bracing himself for what was to come. He resisted the urge to rest his heels on Chris’s desk even though it was the perfect height.

“I’d just like to check in with you, evaluate how you’re doing and maybe get an idea of where all these complaints are coming from.” Chris smiled compassionately, giving Ron the urge to punch him. Which, of course, was not Chris’s fault for once. Most things set off his unusually sensitive punch reflex these days. This morning, Diane made a pun at him and Ron gave her an affectionate shoulder-punch. It left a bruise.  “Leslie has been telling me of some… worrying behavior from you. You are still an extremely valuable member of the team, but we really do have to get to the bottom of these issues before they become more serious.”

“Yes, I understand completely. I actually wanted to talk to you about it.” Ron nodded.

“Good! Now, let’s start with the incident in the town hall meeting. Did you fling that pen with the intention of knocking that man out?” Ron rolled his eyes. All of this was just dancing around the real issue.

“Yes.” He sighed, trying his best to slouch in Chris’s stupid space-age chair.

“Why did you intend to knock that man out?”

“Because he was useless, nothing he had to say had anything to do with the issue at hand and he was being incredibly disrespectful to Leslie. Look, it really isn’t a big deal. Now, I have something slightly more important that-”

“When you say ‘he was useless’, what-“ Chris began, his smile faltering.

Ron cut in, leaning forwards. “You know I don’t mince words, Traeger. When I say ‘he was useless’ I mean he is a pointless drain on society. But that is not why I came here to talk to you. There is a larger issue at hand.”

“A larger issue then your frankly worrying conduct?”

“Yes. The cause of it.” Ron took a deep breath, Gathering the appropriate words for what was in his mind. “This is going to sound… crazy. But I… I think I’m turning into a homicidal lesbian.”

“Well. Congratulations, Ron. That is. Literally. The strangest thing. I have ever heard in my life.” For once, Chris’s overuse of the word ‘literally’ was actually appropriate. But he wasn’t looking at him like he’d completely lost his mind, which Ron was incredibly thankful for. “So, how exactly do you feel this way? Do you know when this began?”

So Ron told him everything. He told him about the strange dreams, the way he seems to feel more and more different every day, how he seems to forget things like his coworkers names or elevators, how he’d remember other things which he never knew before such as how to kill a man with a couple well-placed pokes. How he suddenly couldn’t stand all of the clothing in his wardrobe and can barely look in the mirror without cringing. And the entire time, Chris just listened. It must have been the longest Ron had ever spoken continuously. “… so if you could give me the number of that therapist you spoke so highly of, I would be grateful. I will also need a few months off work. Possibly more.”

Chris Traeger fell silent for a full minute as he scribbled something down on a post it. “Well the good news is that I don’t believe you’re going insane.”

“What other explanation is there?” Ron said, somewhat resigned to his fate. He dared not hope that everything could go back to normal after this.

“Lately, I’ve been reading about reincarnation and past lives. In fact, I found the subject so interesting I visited a past-life therapist to see if I could uncover any exciting secrets within my spiritual history. I was hoping to have the recycled and refurbished soul of Joseph Bell, the man Arthur Conan Doyle based Sherlock Holmes off of, but it turns out… I have a brand new soul! Isn’t that great?” Chris, the new age enthusiast, beamed from his ergonomic chair of space-age smartfoam.

“Bully for you.” Ron Swanson sighed, catching on to where this conversation was headed. He could smell the patchouli and marijuana already. “But I think the whole ‘past lives’ idea might be a little far-fetched.”

A stupidly charming smirk stretched across his face. “Anymore far-fetched than turning into a homicidal lesbian?”

Ron grumbled under his mustache and took the post it with the past-lives therapist’s contact info, evacuating Chris’s office before he got the urge to hug him.


	5. Chapter 5

There were many things Ron expected from a past-lives therapist’s office. Incense. At least two fake Persian carpets. A white receptionist with dreadlocks. Vaguely ethnic ambient music. All of the things anyone who knew him would use to repel or annoy him.

He was correct on almost all counts except one. The white receptionist had a greasy bun tied to the back of his head.

Ron took a seat on a… large cushion that was pretending to be a chair in the waiting room and tried his best to breathe through his mouth to spare his nostrils the displeasure of being exposed to the sticky sweet smog in the air.

He found it something of a relief that this experience was just as unpleasant to him in his current state as when he was fully himself. So either he was getting better or the homicidal maniac in his head actually had something in common with him. Although… the cushion was actually pretty comfortable.

“Ron! What a coincidence!” Said the one thing he did not expect to find in a past-lives therapist’s office. Leslie Knope.

It occurred to his rather rebellious mind that Leslie’s hair was luminous like the manes of Apollo’s horses and he’d very much like to braid it.  He quickly shut that thought out like a Mormon on his doorstep and nodded curtly to Leslie. That’s what he would usually do, right?

“Wow. How did Chris rope you into this? I mean, I already had something of a scientific curiosity. But you? He must’ve blackmailed you. What did he blackmail you with?” She rambled on as she flopped rather clumsily onto an adjacent cushion.

“Nothing.” Ron grunted. “I came of my own volition.”

Leslie barked a laugh. “Then it must’ve been something incredibly embarrassing.”

“Why are you here, Leslie?” Ron sighed, his head throbbing like Tartarus.

Her eyes lit up and he knew instantly that he’d made a horrible mistake. “Well, I’ve been having these visions lately of this… warrior goddess with long black hair and excellent breasts. Since I’ve been getting them I’ve been feeling… strange. Like I don’t belong in this century? I keep looking up at the night sky and expecting stars or waking up in the morning wondering why it doesn’t smell like the forest or campfires. It just occurred to me last week how noisy this city is and how bad cars smell. Underneath it all, I feel this deep sense of loss. Like I’m missing some part of myself that’s… vital. Even forgetting what it is feels like some great sin.” Somewhere in her rambling monologue, the rhythm of her speech changed. Became slower and harder, like a march down a long road. It was achingly familiar to Ron. Logically, he knew this wasn’t his own natural response but he couldn’t deny himself, or whatever demon witch that had possessed him, that sensation of warm familiarity. “It came up when I was talking to Chris and he recommended this. It sounded like hokum, but hey if I get to say I was some badass queen in my past life I won’t complain. What about you?”

Ron slouched on his cushion and took a deep breath. “I’ve also been having dreams. Most of them are on battlefields where I’m covered in blood and sweat, surrounded by the screams of dying men and the smell of rotting corpses and loving every second of it. When I wake up I’m not myself. Sometimes, I don’t come back to myself for hours and it’s terrifying. I live with children. I have a wife. I can’t have some murderous woman taking over my life and doing god knows what.”

It was then that a woman wearing an outfit made entirely of scarves opened a door. “Ron Swanson?”

“I’m regretting this already” Ron grunted as he pulled himself off the floor, his aging back protesting loudly to the sudden movement. 

* * *

 

The “therapist’s” “office” was thankfully incense free but covered in an uncomfortable amount of ratty tapestries and altars to all of the most popular foreign gods. Thankfully, there were a few structures that at least resembled chairs.  
  
Ron sat in the one that was across from the one the scarf woman sat in.

The scarf woman smiled like her life was complete and full of light. Ron could’ve vomited. “Good afternoon, Ron. How aware are you of the identity of this previous life you’ve chosen to pursue?”

“I’m sorry?” Ron blinked, temporarily deafened by the woman’s loud chest scarves.

She smiled more insistently. “Do you know the name of person you were in your past life.”

Ron shook his head. If he ever heard the woman’s name in his dreams, it got lost in the violence and backflips.

“Alright then. This will just be a preliminary visit then. We’ll just take you into your past life for maybe 5 minutes just for you to get a feel for the process and get to know this other being. Consider it an introduction to your deeper self.” She went on, her hands waving about fluidly in a way that was almost hypnotic. She reached for a small remote and turned on a sound system which played the vrious sounds of white noise. Waves, wind, a cat purring, bees humming, rain, breathing, a heartbeat, all blended together interspersed with the sound of bells.

“Get settled in any way you like. You can lie down or sit up. Any position that you feel comfortable in, but not so comfortable that you feel you might fall asleep.” Ron chose to stay as he was.

“When you’re ready, take deep breaths. Feel your body expand and contract. Let your mind drift away…” The woman’s voice faded away and Ron found himself somewhere else entirely.

 

 

He was fishing. On a lake he knew wasn’t in pawnee or even Indiana but was somehow as familiar to him as the lake by his cabin. The air was too warm and smelled of animal hide and horse dung. The ground under his feet was rocky and dry. The sky was wide and blindingly blue.  
  
“I’ve been waiting for you, Ron.  Wasn’t expecting you to wait so long to look for me.” There was a woman next to him, holding a fishing rod made of wood and twine. She wore leather and bronze and an ever present aura of danger. He knew already her name was Xena.

“What do you want from me?” Ron asked, casting his line out across the calm waters.

She smirked, her clear blue eyes gleaming in the bright sunlight. “So suspicious. I’m not trying to take anything away from you. I just need your help with something.”

“I have no interest in rampant murder, thanks.” He thought he felt a tug on the line. It was only a snag against a clump of algae.

“Good. Neither do I.”

Ron huffed a sarcastic laugh.

“That was the old me.” Xena continued. “I know what you’ve been seeing in those visions. The hate and fury. But there’s more than that and you know it.”

“You mean that talkative blonde and the horse? Is that really supposed to make everything better? You killed thousands, but hey you have a girlfriend and a pet so you can’t be all bad.” Ron pulled in a decent sized trout and dropped it in the burlap bag Xena had laid out.

“No, it doesn’t make everything better. I can’t change my past, but I have done all I can to fix the damage I’ve done and make the future a little brighter. Which brings me to why I need your help.”

Ron considered his options. “Will you leave me alone if I say no?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll help you.”


End file.
